


Maiden's Shield

by Solar_Sylvilagus



Series: Please Don't Break The Characters [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Cause that's How It Be, F/F, No beta-reader we die like fools, This was supposed to be a drabble getting a feel for Wiggy's character, but my hand slipped at the end there and lesbians happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solar_Sylvilagus/pseuds/Solar_Sylvilagus
Summary: Wigfrid tries not to dwell on things. Doesn't always work though.





	Maiden's Shield

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in what will possibly be a collection of drabbles for the sake of getting a feel for various characters. It's kinda sad-ish and there's some references to the hostility to Irish immigrants that was A Thing in the late 1840s. I honestly can't judge the quality of this fic? Is it good? Is it bad?

Once evening came and temporarily made the ponds less dangerous, they made a decent mirror. Stagnant water with unknown depths provided as good of a reflection as one could get out here, and most survivors would take advantage of this to do a bit of grooming.

The danger presented by the hordes of murderous frogs was less for Wigfrid, but she had other reasons for avoiding the ponds. A glimpse of her reflection would set a knot of unease in her stomach, luring her closer with a desire to examine her face. A face which was only barely familiar to her now. Skin tanned by the sun and many more freckles than she’d come to this wretched place with, the chip in one of her front teeth and the bags under her eyes. A particularly vicious scar through her eyebrow that only stood out more thanks to the sun.

So, while she stood guard nearby as some of the others fished in the abundant ponds, she tried to ignore her reflections cast across the water. Ignore how what had once been soft curves had been replaced with bone and strong, lean muscle. Ignore the wild tangle of red hair and the way it framed the now sharp angles of her face.

Because the façade she wore was precarious. Because Wigfrid the Viking could survive out here, but she couldn’t. Because if she took off the helmet and dropped the exaggerated voice, all she’d be was a scared young woman with nothing but death in all directions.

Because if the chink in her armor turned it to dust, who would protect the others? Who would square their shoulders and raise a spear and scream a rallying cry before changing the unfavorable odds?

* * *

 

Since she’d come to America as a child, she’d been ashamed of her curly red hair. It set her apart. A big stamp on her that read “Irish Immigrant, Here To Take Your Jobs.” It made her a target of harsh words and thrown rocks and denied jobs. Which is why her hair had been tied into two braids and then left like that for who knows how long. Her aversion to the ponds and the hassle of taming curly hair with a handmade comb dissuading her from touching it, regardless of uncomfortable tangles. A few times she had toyed with the idea of chopping it all off, but just couldn't bring herself to do so.

Aside from friendly or not-so-friendly jests towards her hygiene habits, no one seemed to pay much mind to the state of her hair, which was probably because the only one who seemed to care about hair was the scientist. Well, maybe someone else. Like the Firestarter who approached her with a makeshift brush and comb and an assortment of flower and ribbons.

“Your hair’s a mess, so I was gonna offer to fix it up for you. If you want me to, that is.”

And despite her hesitation, Wigfrid agreed, letting her guard down as her braid were undone carefully so as not to yank the tangles. Working said tangles out did cause some discomfort, but it was so nice to feel air on her scalp after having it suffocated for so long. Cheerful chatter had slowly drifted into a comfortable silence, before Wigfrid found herself gutted.

“Your hair’s such a nice shade of red, and the curls are so soft. It’s like a little candle flame, the way it bounces.”

Such a sweet spear through her soul, and she was immensely grateful that by the time the flowers had been braided into her hair that she had managed to dry her eyes and spoke in a soft voice.

“Thank you, Willow.”


End file.
